


but that's just teenage talk

by candypolaroide



Category: To All the Boys I’ve Loved Before (2018)
Genre: Alternate Universe, F/M, Fluff, Humour
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-08
Updated: 2019-01-08
Packaged: 2019-10-06 21:10:04
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,863
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17352641
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/candypolaroide/pseuds/candypolaroide
Summary: Taking a deep breath, I pick up the rest and start rifling through them, rapid-fire. Lucas’ envelope is opened so neatly, the seam almost looks brand-new. I have to smile at that—even now, even after five years, he’s still ever the gentleman. Peter Kavinsky’s envelope is nearly shredded to pieces, though. I scowl at it furiously. What a waste of perfectly good cherry washi-tape.(or, an AU where Lara Jean writes bucket lists instead of love letters, and Peter Kavinsky is inexplicably dragged along for the ride)





	but that's just teenage talk

**Author's Note:**

> please read Jenny Han's original books before going through this fic bc i tried really hard to mimic her writing style, so it may not make sense if u aren't aquainted with Lara Jean's dreamy, slightly naive narration. 
> 
> also, i didn't want to rewrite the original love letters (bc they are really too precious) so they're of a similar tone thats individual to each boy, but the main focus should be on the bucket list items.
> 
> this work may or may not have been inspired by this [meme.](https://twitter.com/mvndust/status/1030305562020392960) maybe. idk.

I like to dream about things.

Not about crazy things, or wild things, or impossible things. Not like Chris does. Chris is always talking about parties and raves and endless nights—I don’t like to think about those too much. And not about scary stuff, like the kind that Kitty’s obsessed with, either. I’m also the opposite of Margot, who only has _really_ big dreams (those are the sole kind she says are worth thinking about).

No, I like to dream about little things—like walking down a perfectly empty street in Paris with a sole street magician tucked into the corner. Or maybe finding a lucky penny and stringing it on a chain. The perfect, golden, buttery slice of toast that pops out first thing in the morning. Just little stuff like that; the smaller, more mundane moments in life.

My sisters say that I’m nearly floating above the ground sometimes, the way my brain thinks up fantasies so wildly. I like to say that I’m _optimistic_ , _hopeful_ , a true _romantic_ in an age of cynicism.

I guess you could say that’s why I write so much, spinning off a few simple words into a million different fantasies. Bucket lists are my favourites though, because they make the world seem so much easier to conquer; so much more to explore.

I have nearly a dozen bucket lists about _everything_ : things I want to do on my prom night, having the perfect high school experience, Before-I-Dies—silly stuff like that. They’re all tucked safely into the teal hatbox that my mom gave me, hidden high up in my closet. I like to think she’s watching over them sometimes, guarding my hopes and dreams with her spirit in the fierce way that only moms can do.

I also write bucket lists for my crushes—

 _—especially_ my crushes.

It's the perfect form of closure: five little boxes matched with five little sentences. Sort of like a _last-hurrah_  for hopes that I once placed upon a boy who broke my prepubescent heart in some way or another. Even just seeing my puppy-sick longings on paper helps with the pain sometimes, to witness just how much I've grown since feeling them. After that, they’re signed, sealed, and—well, not delivered. They stay hidden deep in my closet, buried in my hatbox.

I never open them after the envelope's licked, because if I do, I’m scared that the feelings might come back. It’s safe to say they haven’t—after nearly eight years of writing them, I can now say that sixteen year-old Lara Jean would rather _die_ than read what she wrote in middle school. It’s probably all for the best, anyways. I don’t remember what’s on the letters anymore, and I can barely even remember who they were addressed to.

There were five letters, by the way. Five lists.

Peter (with the beautiful eyes), Kenny from camp, Lucas from homecoming, John Ambrose from Model UN, and Josh—the boy next door.

Five boys that I’ve ever loved.

 

★

 

The day my world falls apart is the day when my lists—my letters!—get sent out into the mail.

Everything seems to be going so wrong—first running into Peter Kavinsky (whom I haven’t talked to in _years_ ), then seeing Josh, then _kissing_ Peter Kavinsky—

—the day is a blur. I still feel slightly nauseous from fainting.

As soon as I get home, I dump my letters out onto my bed.

Four letters. Who am I missing?

Quickly, I run through the list in my head— _Peter (with the beautiful eyes), Kenny from camp, Lucas from homecoming, John Ambrose from Model UN, and Josh—the boy next door._

John Ambrose is really the only letter I haven’t gotten back, but luckily he lives nearly two hours away—so that’s not my biggest problem right now.

No, my biggest problem (or should I say, my biggest _problems_ ) take on the shape of four cutesy little envelopes scattered across my bedspread. On the surface, they seem harmless; beautiful even. I take a quick reprieve to absent-mindedly congratulate middle-school Lara Jean for her classy taste in stationary (a mixed rice-paper set was _definitely_ the right touch).

Zoning back into panic mode, I take deep breaths and pinch the nearest envelope with my finger.

It’s _green_.

All of a sudden, I know who this belongs to.

 

★

_Dear Kenny,_

_I really like you, but it’s okay if you don’t like me back. I saw you kissing Suzy Shellington by the campfire last night—it seemed so romantic. Oh, if only that were me!!! All I can say is, these were some things that I really wanted to do with you before camp ended (and if thinks work out, hopefully they might be crossed off in the future!!!!!)_

  1. _sleep under the stars!_
  2. _go camping (real camping!! like, with tents and everything!!_
  3. _see a shooting star!_
  4. _sing around a campfire! like in_ Wet Hot American Summer!
  5. _hike until the sun comes up!!!_



_With love,  
Lara Jean Song-Covey!!_

★

Honestly, I want to _die._

Seriously? “Like in _Wet Hot American Summer”_?? _Seriously?_

And what was _with_ my endless exclamation marks? Obviously, I was not nearly as devastated as I’d imagined—it was probably just an excuse to wear the new army green hiking boots I got that summer.

Band-Aid’s off the wound now. Thanks, Kenny from camp. You were fun.

Taking a deep breath, I pick up the rest and start rifling through them, rapid-fire. Lucas’ envelope is opened so neatly, the seam almost looks brand-new. I have to smile at that—even now, even after five years, he’s still ever the gentleman. Peter Kavinsky’s package is nearly shredded to pieces, though. I scowl at it furiously. What a waste of perfectly good cherry washi-tape.

But Josh’s—

Josh’s envelope looks _crumpled_ , like he accidentally squeezed it in his hands too hard whilst reading it. Touching the letter, his page feels soft—it’s been opened and folded many times.

My heart starts beating faster again, and I don’t even know why.

 

★

 

_Dear Lucas,_

_I think tonight is the first night we’ve ever talked. I really wish you didn’t wait until Homecoming because we could have been such good friends earlier, I think. I hardly know anything about you, except that you’re a really good dancer and always seem to have a lot of fun. You’re also so fashionable, so quiet, so mysterious—oh, how I wish I knew you well enough to:_

  1. _exchange mixtapes (or CDs, or iPods—I’m not picky)_
  2. _go thrift-shopping together (these stores always kind of scare me, but I think you’d be fun to take along)_
  3. _sing karaoke (I know you’re very musical)_
  4. _sneak a phone call at 2AM_
  5. _slow-dance to my favourite song_



_Love,  
Lara Jean Song-Covey_

★

 

_Josh,_

_I think I’ve loved you since the day we met. You’re not mine, though, you’re Margot’s—so for the rest of my life I shall be yearning, waiting, longing. Someday might be our day; but for now we shan’t give in. I love you so much that sometimes I’ll feel like I’m dying when I see you two together. Promise me someday, anyday, that you will pick me up in that blue Chevy truck you’re gonna get when you turn sixteen and complete this list with me. I mean it Josh. I’m waiting._

  1. _road trip together, just you and me._
  2. _have a snowball fight even when we’re too old to_
  3. _bake Christmas cookies with my family_
  4. _volunteer to come to every one of Kitty’s swim meets with me—I’m always dreadfully bored but too shy to ask_
  5. _explore New York City (because that’s my favourite place in the whole world, and you’re my favourite person in it xx)_



_Love,_

_Lara Jean Song-Covey_

★

I’m pretty sure I faint, again.

 

★

 

When I come to, Kitty is standing over me with a concerned look on her face. “What are you _doing?_ ” she asks, teetering between worried and disgruntled.

 _What am I doing?_ What _am_ I doing, lying there on the floor?

I’m a little confused myself, and start to furrow my brow before I remember—

—the letters.

_Oh no._

Those stupid goddamn love letters. I curse myself and my pathetic attachment to tangible objects, for saving so many embarrassing relics of the past. If Josh were here, he’d be bent over backwards laughing and—

Josh.

Oh my _god_ , Josh. As in, Margot’s boyfriend. As in, the boy next door. _My_ Josh.

Reading over the letters, I actually want to curl up into a ball and die; why was I so…embarrassing? So _heartfelt!_  And _why_ , did I think it was a good idea to copy all of my romance novels by randomly throwing in stuff like _shan't_ and _yearning_?? I’ve never been naked in front of a boy before, but I imagine that this is similar to how it feels.

I'm just opening my mouth to scream again, but then I remember:

_Peter (with the beautiful eyes), Kenny from camp, Lucas from homecoming, John Ambrose from Model UN, and Josh—the boy next door._

There’s still one left.

 

★

 

_Dear Peter,_

_I don’t even like you that much—there’s nothing really special about you, other than the fact that you’re Gen’s boy and that you stole my first kiss from me. It was a terrible kiss, by the way—but thanks to that stupid nothing kiss, you now are unfortunately the star of your very first letter. It’s hard for me to really think of things that I wish we did together, mostly because you can be SO ANNOYING that it’s hard to take you seriously. But just for sake of principle, I_ guess _I’d really want to—_

  1. _hang out with your mom (because she’s always so nice to me whenever me and Gen hang out at your house. you’re really lucky that you have her, actually.)_
  2. _hold a staring contest with you because up close, you’re not so much handsome as you are beautiful (and I don’t think you even realize it). also, you have really lovely golden specks in your eyes, but they're really small. like fairy dust!_
  3. _play a game of truth or dare together, because you’ve always been the most interesting one at a party_
  4. _to kiss you, again_
  5. _also, I’ve always wanted to feel your heart beating because you said it was really big and I have to judge that for myself (_ a person can’t lie about their size and get away with it, you know.)



_Lara Jean Song-Covey_

★

I stare blankly at the wall in shock.

And I thought Josh’s was bad— _Peter’s_ love letter is just pure hormone-driven _lust_. God. I bury my head in my hands, because it’s feeling a little bit woozy, I think. I just need time to calm down; to avoid Josh until everything settles back to its original place and he’s forgotten all about the letter like a distant memory. Breathing in slowly, I try to relieve my stress through karma-inducing techniques that I copied from Margot. _Good. In_ -out _. In-_ out. _In—_

The doorbell rings. It’s Josh.

Suddenly, all I can hear in my head is:

_Peter(withthebeautifuleyesKennyfromcampLucasfromhomecomingJohnAmbrose—_

—before I’m diving headfirst out of my bedroom window.

**Author's Note:**

> ur not allowed to criticize the movie unless u've read the books. sorry, i don't make the rules


End file.
